


Day 4: Who hurt you?

by SaiTheWriter



Series: Turkstober2020 [4]
Category: Before Crisis: Final Fantasy VII, Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Beating, For fuck's sake have a safeword, Seriously this shit is no good, Turks (Compilation of FFVII), Voyeurism, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:28:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26822932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaiTheWriter/pseuds/SaiTheWriter
Summary: Reno doesn't regret what they do. They are the means to an end, the dogs loosed to take down their master's marks. But the need for penance claws at him all the same.  A cleansing.
Series: Turkstober2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957075
Kudos: 17
Collections: Turkstober 2020





	Day 4: Who hurt you?

**Author's Note:**

> Added bonus of optional prompt 'BDSM Elements'.
> 
> This is an excerpt from my Reno's backstory I've been toying with. Obviously an AU, but only in the way that it could have happened and wasn't talked about in canon. If you can't tell who's hinted at playing merry hell on his body, I'll be blatant in the end notes.
> 
> It is imperative for people to understand that this is not at all good BDSM etiquette. Please practice safe, sane, and consensual with your partner(s). A club like this is absolute shit and should be shut down. Unfortunately, places like this exist in real life, and so here we are.

_Thwack._

His head jerked at the sudden stripe of pain that snapped diagonally across his shoulders, issuing a low cry while it burned across steadily rising skin. The weapon of choice felt thick, something like a billy club but not quite that he’d seen settled innocently enough on a table, before the thick blindfold was fitted over his eyes. Standard practice here, to ensure blackmail wasn’t a thing between the two parties. Kept it anonymous, and that suited him fine, seeing as only the attendants saw the entirety of your face before you were guided into the pits. Midgar was a large city, and given that only the lower half of the city tended to be the one strung up since higher ups could pay for better if they fancied a go, well. There wasn’t much you could blackmail a slum runner for.

_Thwock._

The next hit smacked agony bright into his side, his yell showing off just how painful the somewhat measured hit indeed was. His feet had to scramble for balance as the momentum threatened to keep him off his feet, swinging slightly in the bonds that held him from the rafters. They were cruel in their works, but not beyond so. The cuffs that gripped his wrists each time felt lined with something, ensuring that by the end when he hung from them, his wrists were not cut or rubbed raw by unforgiving material. There were days he wasn’t hanging, bent over a crate or attached to a pillar, but it seemed his audience most liked when he lost his balance and spun.

_Thwock._

And so it continued, each heavy hit eliciting a short sound from him while muted voices tittered and conversed somewhere off to his side, a sound he’d come to zone out to. For as long as he’d been coming to the club, he’d found that audiences were just part of the experience, not unlike the fight clubs underground he’d slithered from when this place had been touched on. Just an extra noise he didn’t have to live with, but bore for the sake of his own needs. After all, these people were like him in a way. They needed this just as much as he did, right?

It suited him just fine, he was here to fulfill a need and they probably were too. Judging by the perfumes, colognes, smokes that rent the air, this was a party of class, likely something they paid to witness or spend a hand at toying with him or some other pain attached sop he could faintly hear from various other rooms in the club. But no, he could tell by the scent of strong tobacco who was running the punishment today.

It seemed like every time as of late he ventured to the Melting Pot, the same person happened to be here, stinking of good cigars and teasing him into screams far more quickly than others. He wasn’t about to complain, it was a sharper high than he could ever remember. Except...it was almost like the man knew his schedule. It just had to be coincidence. The only one that truly knew his schedule was Tseng. Well, and his fellow Turks. But none of them smoked, not cigars, at any rate. He was sharp where it counted, if he hadn’t noticed looks from them by now, he sincerely doubted one of them was in the audience.

The reason had to be that the fuck was just wealthy enough to be a regular from above the plate, eagerly preying on anything that wandered in with need for penance. That’s how he got here, anyways. Wouldn’t it be funny if he became a favorite for some higher up here at the Pot itself? Him, favored. Well, if there were any place he could actually be a favored person, it would be here. Hell, maybe they’d start paying him.

_Kr-rack!_

The sudden heavy hit driving into the soft flesh of the side of his belly tugged out the first scream of the night from him, leaving him momentarily reeling as the sounds of approval swelled at the edges of his hearing. His own instructions to the attendant were simple and never changed: No lasting damage, and nothing on the visible surfaces before he dressed down to just jeans, discarding the long sleeved henley he wore and toeing out of his sneakers. And no sex. They always asked, they were good about that, at least. One of his first nights, he’d forgotten to mention lasting damage, and some fuck had put out his cigar on the bottom of his heel. A sure lesson to remember every time now. 

The reason they asked? Either they had too many idiots in here like him to keep track and remember, or more likely people changed their limits more often. Sometimes he could hear moans along with the sobs, but his limits always remained the same, even if once in a while he had an urge to wonder. Would it hurt like the rest? Would they take the mask off? Would he get as addicted to it as he was to this? Ultimately, the curiosity could not ever be indulged. This was a penance in its own way. Bringing some form of pleasure into the mix would just taint everything it stood for.

Another smack into the side of his thigh dragged him from his thoughts, rending the air with another yell that got the small crowd going again. Apparently being lost in thought distracted him from the blows, leaving his tormentor to try harder. They liked when he screamed, it was fun for them probably, to see what would cause the most volume. Often he would hear smatterings of requests before his mind started to shut down on thought, sometimes enough to brace himself for the next blow, though it wasn’t always the guess he expected.

Warm up done, the man punishing him shifted pace, muttering low and sending the attendant to steal away his trousers, leaving the redhead in nothing more than a thin pair of charcoal grey boxer briefs. Ah, he remembered this part. His inner thigh was the first to feel the bite, urging a skittering scream from his lips where he hung, a rapidfire series of blows followed until his legs were on fire and no longer able to hold him. For a few blessed moments vertigo took over and he spun, taking a much needed breath or five while his legs burned into fire.

Sagging in the bonds holding his arms up, the redhead vaguely heard a commotion, while he panted, twitching as a hand came up to steady his arms while someone else worked the line down until he was kneeling. Someone was nice enough to put a pad down, and he took the reprieve as he could, half aware of the sound of another cigar being lit, more people slipping in and out. Someone grabbed a fistful of his hair, jerking his head up this way and that until one sharp tug pulled a pained noise when it bent his head back too far. It was met with mild laughter, but the hand let him go, his head dropping down immediately after with a quiet sigh of relief. 

Until it began again. He paid for an hour, what he could scrape together from his new job. There were times when he’d splurge for two, when the darker thoughts required more sating. Always he found himself winding back to this spot, spending time soothing his ragged nerves with the balm of breaking skin and the sound of blood pounding in his veins. No one knew. Neither his new friends and colleagues at ShinRa, nor the few older acquaintances he still had from his other life. No, this was fucking private. 

When the hour was up, the crowd had filed out first, a faux tender hand running down his flank and pressing into the welts long enough to pull a pained sound from his hoarse throat. Then the door was shut and the attendant was bringing him down, patting his cheek roughly to help tug his thoughts back. A cursory once over, a bottle of water, and he was left alone with his clothes to take the back door out into the side hall used for people like him. Leaving through the front unmasked was a no no, all a part of those safety rules. Even the exit was on another street, into the bustling nightlife and static hum of the under plate. Well, maybe time for a drink before home.

_“Reno.”_

His head popped up in surprise, jolting back to the present, and the sharp eyes of his superior. Shit, his thoughts had wandered to last night. “I said, what happened? Your last report stated no injuries.” His gaze was pointed, looking to where he was leaning in his seat to favor his side.

Lazy eyed and shrugging a shoulder, the redhead offered the man a wide beaming grin from his seat at his console. “I ain’t about to drop a couple bullshit hits on there, you know that, boss.” Reno drawled, already tilting back to his screen. “Waste o’ time. Bumped my fuckin’ coffee table worse than this shit.” He could feel that gaze and its assessment before it moved away, either content to believe the response, which he sincerely doubted, or more than likely without the time to put up with his bullshit. Overall, a near miss, something he needed to think about for next time. Perhaps only weekend visits from now on.

**Author's Note:**

> President Shinra is an asshole and the idea of him having a background into his need and subtly training him for later nefarious purposes gives me life.


End file.
